Johnson, A.E.The Hazeley Family

CHAPTER X
LOTTIE PIPER.

FLORA had stood for some little time, mechanically caressing the vine, when she was
surprised to hear near at hand, in a voice strangely familiar, the words:

"Well, I declare!"

Looking up quickly, but scarcely crediting her own eyes, she exclaimed:

"Lottie Piper!"

"Flora Hazeley!" returned the voice, and in a moment the friends were locked in each other's
arms.

"Where did you come from? What are you doing here?" asked Flora, eagerly, in her desire to
account for Lottie's presence in the village.

"Only one question at a time, if you please," laughingly returned Lottie. "Can you not guess?"
she added, glancing at her gown, and for the first time Flora noticed it was black.

The quick tears sprang to Flora's eyes.

"Oh, Lottie, who is it? Not your mother?" she said,

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sympathetically, her arm tightening in its grasp, and her thoughts running back to her sorrow
when Aunt Bertha passed away.

"Yes," returned Lottie, sadly," mother is dead. Father felt that he could not be happy at home,
and so he went away out West, and left me with my aunt, Mrs. Emmeline Durand. And Flora, if
you want to know what misery is, just you come and take my place for a while." And she looked
at Flora with such a mingled expression of regret at her lot, and assumed resignation, that Flora
was tempted to laugh, in spite of her sorrow in learning of the death of Mrs. Piper.

"If you want to laugh, you may," said Lottie, seeing her difficulty, and appreciating it, as was
shown by the merry twinkle in her bright black eyes.

"No, no, I must not laugh," said Flora, squeezing her friend's arm affectionately. "I'm so sorry
that your mother is dead. Where does your aunt live? I will come and see you."

"Yes, I understand. It is all right. It is not your fault," said Flora, hastily, appreciating the
situation; and

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wishing to relieve the embarrassment of the other, she added, "You can come and see me."

"I don't know," answered Lottie, glad to find that Flora understood. "I hardly think she would
let me come. I have not asked her to go anywhere, as yet. I have been with her about five weeks,
and this is the first time I have been out, except on an errand. She says she doesn't approve of
girls 'gadding the streets.' I must go now. I have stayed longer than I ought to already, for I had a
long walk before I saw you. Flora," she added, an instant later, as she glanced at the window,
"isn't that a potato in that jar?"

"Yes," answered Flora, "it is the same one you gave me when I was leaving Brinton."

"Really? The very same?"

"Yes. You know you told me not to eat it, and I didn't know what to do with it at first." Then
I thought it would look very nice if I put it in the window; I did, and it has grown splendidly and
has kept green all winter."

"I am so glad you thought of that, Flora, because that was what I first noticed as I passed.
And I thought it looked like a sweet-potato vine. And then, you know," Lottie continued, "if you
hadn't I should not have stopped or seen

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you ever, because I did not know where you were going when you came away. But what will my
aunt say? I guess I'll not get anything for supper but a bit of tongue, and I don't fancy that, I can
tell you. Good-bye." And with a hurried kiss, and a warm embrace, Lottie hurried down the
street.

She was sorry to go, as it was so good to meet somebody she knew--somebody
connected with the old, happy home-life, for while Lottie's mother lived, she had been very happy.
But now she was so lonely.

She hurried along the streets until she came to one near the suburbs of the town. This street
had trees on either side, and was very quiet. The houses were small and nearly all set back from
the street.

Lottie walked along briskly, turning deftly in and out, and at length arrived safe and sound at
the little gate leading into her aunt's yard. This gate opened upon a small space, which doubtless
had been intended by the builder of the house to be beautified with flowers; but Mrs. Durand's
front yard was closely paved with red brick. Not a flower, or a vine, or a bush broke the
monotony, which, however, was not wearisome, as the yard was small.

A high board fence enclosed the little yard on each side.

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Close to the gate stood a large, old poplar, strangely drawn toward the quiet narrow street, as if
weary of the unattractiveness of the house.

Lottie was nervous; she dreaded the reception she felt sure awaited her. The only thing that
occurred to her to do was to knock, and she did so.

Receiving no responses, she knocked again and waited.

There was still no response, and thinking she had not been heard, she knocked again and
again.

At length, just as she had decided that her aunt must be out, a calm voice from behind the
door said in the deliberate tones:

"If you will take the trouble to turn the knob, the door might open."

This idea had not occurred to Lottie, and the knowledge that the door was not locked
somewhat confused her. However, she opened the door, and went in.

"There is a mat in front of the door," suggested the voice in the same slow, measured
tones.

After wiping off the infinitesimal amount of dust from her shoes, Lottie timidly ventured into
the room.

"Go to your room, if you will, and lay aside your wraps," came the voice, in an authoritative
way.

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Without speaking, Lottie obeyed. She felt as she slowly climbed the stairs that she had
become a veritable automation, without volition or energy, and compelled to do certain things.
This grated on the sensitive nature of the girl, to whom, in the happy days that had passed,
freedom to live in and enjoy the open air was everything. And now--and Lottie inwardly
groaned at the thought--her actions were directed by one who seemed to forget her own
girlhood, or that she had ever enjoyed the bright blue sky, the green fields, the merry, twittering
birds, or the companionship of those who were of her own age.

Lottie had often wondered in her own mind if her aunt had ever been young, and if she had
enjoyed her youth. There was no one to whom she could go for an answer. Had there been, Lottie
would have been surprised to learn that she had been full of bright, merry fun, and had enjoyed life
as she had at home.

"At home," Lottie thought, and paused, thinking of her mother, of the comforts and freedom
of home, and then she looked in the glass to see if she was not old, for those happy days
did
, seem so far away.

Mrs. Durand had met with many disappointments and a great deal of trouble in her life, of
which Lottie knew

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nothing, and which had embittered her disposition, making her crabbed and disagreeable. As she
now was, Lottie supposed she had ever been.

For some moments Lottie had looked in the glass, musingly. Now, as her thoughts returned to
herself and her surrounding, she saw a dreary, woe-begone face looking at her from the quaint,
cracked, old-fashioned mirror on her bureau. It was so doleful and forlorn, that Lottie nearly cried
in sympathy with the miseries of the face before her. In a moment, realizing that it was her own
reflection she saw, and enjoying her mistake, she laughed heartily, where at the face in the mirror
smile pleasantly in return.

"Humph!" said the voice downstairs.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Lottie softly; "I have made her think that I don't care about staying out
so long." And she slowly turned from the bureau and her mirth provoking
vis a vis
, and
leaving her room, slowly descended the stairs to her aunt.

The room in which her aunt sat was furnished very plainly. Some cane-bottomed chairs, a
black horse-hair sofa, a small wooden stand, adorned with a red cloth on which was the family
Bible; two or three pictures upon the

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dingy walls, a pair of tall lamps with a bit of red flannel in the bottom, graced the mantel piece. A
dull ingrain carpet, and some home-made mats covered the floor. These, within cloth-covered
brick used to keep the door open, completed the furnishing of Mrs. Durand's parlor.

Mrs. Durand herself was a small, thin, wiry woman. Her features could hardly be called
attractive; her lips were thin and tightly shut; her eyes were colorless, and she wore three stiff,
little curls on each side of her face. She wore a dark gown, over which was a black apron, and on
her head was a black lace cap. She was busily engaged in making another mat to adorn the floor,
from long, bright-colored stripe of cloth.

For sometime she continued her work in silence. Lottie would have spoken had she had
anything to say.

Presently, to Lottie's great surprise and relief, her aunt remarked:

"You may as well set the table, as you are here."

Lottie was glad to have something to do, as she was so much happier when employed.

"She hasn't scolded me yet, but it will come, that's certain," she said to herself, as she placed
the dishes on

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the little round table in the back room which answered for both kitchen and dining room.

While at supper, Mrs. Durand questioned her niece about her walk, and Lottie told her, not
forgetting the chance of meeting with her friend, Flora Hazeley.

After supper, as was her duty, Lottie washed and put away the dished, without further
conversation with her aunt. That done, she took up a book and began to read.